Viktor's Blood
by Annia Domna
Summary: The early loves and lives of Viktor Krum; contains mild violence and slash. And no Hermione!


The Early Years  
  
1. The searing pain throbbing across the boys hand was numbed by the cold November air of the lofty class room and by the memory of much greater pain inflicted by his own father.  
  
For Viktor Krum it seemed, his second year at Durmstrang was to be much like the first, sneering violent teachers and scoffing, hostile students. As the professor completed his lashing of the boy's palm for another minor lapse of Russian, the common language of the school, Viktor's thoughts drew back to the morning's assembly.  
  
He'd first seen the new comer sitting with the other third year boys, like all classes, segregated from the opposite sex and had been stunned by his angelic beauty. His skin was pale and clear, not his own swarthy complexion inherent of his southern origins and his eyes were such a soft, luminescent green that they appeared to be no more than shimmering lights staring out at the world. And when the boy stood to leave he rose high above his contemporaries moving gracefully through the crowed hall, his long ash brown hair tied loosely down his back.  
  
A nudge in the back signalled the end of another lesson as a burly German student jostled past in his eagerness to get to the hall for their evening meal. "Move it Krum, you little runt! Don't they feed you back home?" to his friends, "The peasants in Bulgarian are too poor to afford more than one meal a day, so I hear."  
  
But today Viktor didn't even bother to dignify the remark with a sneer as his thoughts returned once more to the hall, where he might catch a glimpse of the Angel boy again. Just why was he so skinny, his father was a powerful man, well over six feet tall and Viktor shuddered to think of his large hands and thick forearms, but his mother was petite, with such a tiny waist that even last year he could easily pick her up. Yes that was it, he took after her and yet that brought a smile to his surly face as he trudged down the gloomy corridors. One day, she told him he would develop her skills and strengths too but they would not be fully formed until he reached manhood.  
  
He peered through the crowd of second and third year's looking for that boy, more like one of the magnificent ivory statues in the Ceremonial Hall of his father's castle, than a flesh and blood creature, like himself. Then as he sat down to eat he saw the boy far across the room slide onto a bench and drink from a pewter beaker before him. But as he studied the exquisite line of the boy's full lips his German tormentor filled in line of vision and smirked as Viktor gave his full attention to his thin, beef zharkoye and cabbage, not wanting to betray his true feelings.  
  
That night in the second year dormitory, in his small bed along one of the two rows of ten, Viktor lay awake listening to the snuffing and mumbling from the boys either side of him. But it wasn't this that kept him awake, nor the bitter cold of this northern castle, it was a dull ache in his guts as he imagined those piecing green eyes looking directly into his own deep brown orbs.  
  
2. As the winter solstice approached the thought of two weeks at home became the obsession of every child at school yet to Viktor it seemed the Angel boy was becoming more withdrawn and distant even though they had never actually spoken. But he studied him at every mealtime and whenever the whole school would gather in that foreboding hall with it's meagre fires and scant candle lighting. On occasions he would manage to walk out near the boy, to trail him down some dimly lit passageway until he had to run back to avoid the agonies that befell any student late for lessons.  
  
At breakfast on the final day of school that term Viktor saw that the boy wore not the thick fur cloaks as was customary but a heavy woollen cape, held by a dull silver clasp and that he looked gaunt and fearful as if awaiting some terrible fate. Then those shimmering eyes caught him, he felt trapped under their unwavering scrutiny and there was a feeling of pain, not his own but another's and it was boring into his psyche. When finally the Headmaster dismissed the pupils he lost sight of the Angel boy and he knew he wouldn't see him again until school started once more in January.  
  
3. Glozhene Castle stood perched on the high cliffs of the Stara mountains of central Bulgaria, and to the villagers in the valley below it looked an impressive citadel but to Viktor it was his home and his prison. Climbing the last few steps into the large courtyard of the ancient castle he saw his mother waiting for him, standing in the shadow of an impressive stone archway just as she had four months ago when he left for school. He threw himself into her arms and felt the softness of her blouse against his cheek, her delicate hand stroked his mop of thick black hair and he breathed in the scent of her. But before they had chance to speak the huge oak door behind them opened and she held him at arms length as his father loomed before them. Dressed in a deep brown jerkin, his black hair, flecked with grey falling over the collar, his beard still jet black and those eyes, his eyes, peering out like polished ebony. "Bring the boy inside, I need to see him" his father's voice deep and incongruously soft and Viktor saw a familiar roll of parchment in those fearsome hands. "Ivan let him eat first, please", but his mother's concern only irritated her husband so that he turned and strode towards his study expecting her to bring Viktor to him. "Is Stefan home mamo?" Viktor questioned his mother as they hurried to keep pace with his father. "No my precious, his work keeps him away. Now go to your father, he will be waiting", she sounded anxious and yet held his hand well after she'd told him to go. "Hurry." It was of no importance that his brother would be away, with almost 10 years between them Stefan had always been either at school or out with their father since Viktor could remember. He had considered himself to be an only child and with Ivan's insistence that no village children be allowed near the castle, Viktor had grown up with just the company of adults and the elves who worked there. He knocked on the study door and waited for the command to enter. It was here that his nightmares were played out and it was here where his father would systematically beat him.  
  
4. Despite the small dimensions of his room and the crib bed Viktor was slowly outgrowing he was glad to be in his own room unpacking the few books and clothes he'd brought back from Durmstrang. The arched oriel window looked straight down from the sheer cliff face to the valley below, if he opened the window fully and peered down he got a clear view some three hundred feet to the river. But as he did so now the fresh bruising on his ribcage smarted so that he pulled up and lay carefully on that cosy little bed. He dozed there until his mother appeared at the door with a tray of spicy kebabche sausages, his favourite doughy cheese banitzas and a glass of thick yoghurt drink. Her silken ebony hair was loose now and flowed over her pretty embroidered blouse held tight at the waist by a bright red sash.  
  
"I do try and work hard and stay out of trouble mamo, but." he spoke between mouthfuls. "I know you do Vikki" his mother sympathised. "Your report was excellent and your Russian is much improved but your father can not tolerate undisciplined behaviour." He looked up into her eyes and implored; "But mamo they say things about you, about what you are!" he paused and looked down "Am I such a bad son?" Holding him in her arms; "Oh no precious, never blame yourself, it is he who will one day carry the burden of his hideous ways". Then she lay him down on the soft pillow and kissed him delicately on both cheeks and on the lips so that her long hair fell, like a veil across his eyes. Viktor trembled as she wiped away a tear with her hand and he let her take off his boots and shirt, then drape the thick quilt over him. "Try and sleep now my baby". She kissed him once more and left him alone, the stub of a candle still flickering.  
  
"Leet-ha, is that you?" The room was dark, with not even a crack of light under the uneven wooden door. Viktor felt a warm breath of air on the back of his neck and then a hand slide round to his unbuttoned breeches. "You shouldn't come here, my father." "Just let me do this for you Viktor" Her voice was just a whisper like the tiny candle flame that had died hours ago. "Remember that last night before you went away?" "Oh how could I forget."  
  
They had spent many happy hours together last summer, Viktor and the elf girl who worked at the castle. Although nearing her sixteenth birthday and fully-grown Leet-ha was only as tall as the twelve year old Viktor, but in almost every other respect she had the physique of an adult woman. Except perhaps her long elfish ears and large saucer eyes. She was bright and funny and Viktor had come to cherish the furtive moments they stole when his father was away from Glozhene. On his last night before the long journey north to school, she had appeared in his room for the first time. He was scared and told her leave but she slipped into his bed and silencing him with a kiss; his first taste of her. The warm summer night found him naked and she let her hand move to his growing 'desire', she encouraged it with the most delicate of touches and Viktor fought hard to contain it but soon the moment was gone.  
  
Now she was in his bed once more and soon he became drowsy again, the pleasures of her touch bringing him swiftly into a deep sleep.  
  
At breakfast that morning Viktor hardly dared to look up as Leet-ha came in with the other elfin girl to serve him and his parents, sitting at far ends of the long mahogany table. "I have to go away for a few days, prepare my things." Ivan ordered Leet- ha. "You have to go now, when we're all together for the first time in months?" Viktor's mother inquired, but she got no response, only a cursory kiss on the cheek as he stood up to leave, then he beckoned Viktor into the hall.  
  
Towering above the meek child he spoke in that smooth, menacing voice; "You keep out of trouble while I'm away and don't think just because I can't see you, that I don't know what you get up to." His mind filled with that pretty elf and what his father would do to them both if he ever find out and for a moment he stood staring ahead. "Answer me boy!" "Sir, I, err." But it was too late, the huge flat palm swung round and cuffed his head. "Be off with you." Viktor bolted up the stairs to his room and ran to the little window where he could just see the horse taking his father away on business, before it disappeared into the forest. Sobbing despite the anger he felt; "I'm sorry father". He reached for his broomstick propped against the window frame and as he climbed onto the ledge, tucked the broom under his right leg and tumbled out, down the dark granite walls of the north tower and along the sheer cliffs below. The river was coming rapidly into focus, the wind whipped the thick black locks off his face and the cold winter air stung his eyes, forcing the tears to stream away. He pulled up only when he could hear the roar of the white water below and flew off into the mountains beyond.  
  
5. With his father away the next few days and nights were unbelievably happy for Viktor. He trailed after his mother without her once complaining took his broom out every day and at night he would lie awake waiting for Leet- ha. For two nights now she had sneaked into his room when the castle was deathly quiet and slipped naked into his bed. Her skin was warm and smelt deliciously of the kitchens where she lived, almost like the scent of cinnamon bread. And for sometime after she had pleasured him, he clung to her, nestling his head in her perfect little breasts listening to the steady beat of her heart. But tonight she never appeared, giggling and furtive as if she were playing an enticing game of 'hide and seek'. And in the morning he knew why, Ivan had returned.  
  
Now the atmosphere in the castle changed completely and Viktor was sent to his studies leaving little time for flying. And as Ivan demanded his mother's attentions he hardly got to see her, let alone lie on her bed as he had done, watching her brush her hair and pick out the tunic or sash she would wear that day. Then at night in that childish room he knew Leet-ha would not dare risk visiting, not when his father seemed continually to be watching, waiting for him to falter. So the final few days ended not with the love and affection he had glimpsed whilst his father had gone but in fear and loathing as time after time Ivan would find fault with his second born. Calling him into the dark oppressive study for the humiliating beatings; a clip round the head for poor work, a rap over his knuckles for bad manners or a thwack of the riding crop across his backside for disobedience.  
  
And all that time it was the Angel boy who kept him from crying out and whimpering to let his father know just how much pain he was inflicting. The thought of those unearthly eyes, that noble profile and those unbearably beautiful lips, made him strong but at night those same celestial features came to haunt him. And Viktor despaired of never having touched that ivory skin or felt that luscious mouth.  
  
6. Walking up to the impressive gates to Durmstrang with the worst of the Russian winter howling around him, Viktor imagined Leet-ha's cosy little body snuggling up to him, her hands playfully teasing him and her infectious laugh as he fumbled for the soft, downy mound between her legs. Then a shiver ran down his spine as he thought that soon he would be in the Hall and that at last he would see the boy again. Maybe this term he would find the courage and the opportunity to speak to him, engage him in conversation. But there was never any such chance, the strict school timetable kept the children occupied and each class segregated from the others. So Viktor had to satisfy himself with the regular but distance sightings of his angelic idol at meal times and during assemblies. At least now lessons were becoming more bearable as his Russian improved and the countless hours of tuition at home meant he was rapidly becoming one of the brightest pupils in his year. The beatings subsided and he even received praise from his Latin tutor Professor Nikolov, although Professor Orlov was always swift to raise the cane, referring to Viktor's dark features and heavy brow as if this was cause enough to beat him. And of course there was Quidditch. He'd ridden a broom since he was a small child, down the steep gullies and ravines of the Stara Mountains and through the thick forests surrounding Glozhene Castle. This was were he felt safe, where he could truly express himself and he had become a precocious talent, as he flew it seemed he could almost sense the snitch's whereabouts even before he could see it. And he could nearly always see the tiny golden orb before anyone else. This he knew was one of those skills his mother had assured him he would inherit from her. Yet despite his talent and excellent work, maybe because of it, he still found himself a loner; without anyone he could call a friend. His Quidditch team-mates were amicable enough but they knew they would be ostracised by the more influential members of the school if they got to close to the grandson of a Vampire.  
  
So as the days lengthened and the sun gave off the faintest hints of warmth Viktor absorbed himself in his studies and in his pursuit of becoming a great seeker, practising tirelessly until he could hardly hold his stick and his preternatural vision waned. And as summer approached he found life at school was, with his low expectations almost enjoyable, certainly the punishment served up was never so painful or personal as that dispensed by his own father. As for the disregard his fellow students showed him, he became accustomed to a solitary existence, understanding that their abuse was largely the product of ignorance.  
But one warm summer evening Viktor found himself alone down one of the less familiar corridors of the labyrinthine castle and soon became aware of movement in the shadowy alcoves ahead. He wanted to turn back, to get away from the unnerving sense of anger he felt from those hidden figures yet he couldn't just turn tail and run, he had to face his adversaries. He never saw the first boy, only felt the aching blow to his head and the swift kick aimed at his groin that followed, then as he lay in the dusty stone floor the harsh Germanic tones of his attacker. "Balkan scum, always sucking up to the Masters!" Then another voice, softer, maybe that of a girl; "Why of course, that's what his kind do." Laughing from two or three others, then the German again; "Keep to your own, vampire, we don't want your sort here!" The girl again; "Leave him Klaus, someone's coming."  
  
He was alone with just the sour taste of his own blood; his tongue searched his lips with relish for more of that viscous liquid; he was a vampire here in this dark place, yet also a boy, mortal and afraid.  
  
As the last few days of the summer term dwindled away, Viktor accepted he would never meet the object of his year long obsession and instead tried to imagine a summer ahead filled with the pleasures of his mother's company, his own little room, home cooking and Leet-ha. Yes Leet-ha, she could make the pain go away, just her pretty smile would stop the fear beating in his heart at the sound of his father's heavy footsteps. Now the time had come for the pupils to return home for those six weeks, back to another life, each with it's own joys and trials.  
  
7. Sergei Ruiz's home was north, almost on the edge of the tundra, almost on the edge of the world, so it seemed to this willowy boy of thirteen.  
  
His mouth was dry as he walked along the rutted track through the swaying cornfields where soon he would be working, swinging the smooth, well-worn scythe, that was taller than he and his father would be there. He stopped at the shallow well and drew a pail of cool, clear water, he drank from his cupped hand, then let the water trickle down his burning face and through his shoulder length hair. Then hurrying past the chickens bathing in the dusty yard into the simple wooden house, glad to find it empty. He stood for a moment looking round at the sparse living room, unadorned by curtains at the shuttered windows, the faded rug at the cold hearth giving the room it's only muted colours. Then the smell hit him, Vodka; distilled in the back kitchen and consumed as quickly as it was brewed. Sergei had grown up with this pungent aroma but it was at it's most repulsive when on his father's breath as he leered and staggered in the confines of that remote, single story dwelling. Pushing open the ill fitting door to his room to escape the smell he saw his room was just as he'd left it almost six months before. A large brightly coloured quilt lay folded over on the end of his bed with its threadbare sheets and flat, feather pillow. Sergei threw down his bundle of clothes and books and buried his face into the over sized quilt. The quilt that had been on his mother's bed that night she had screamed and wailed, racked with the agonies of labour until a son was born and her pain was over and she found eternal peace. They say his father knelt by her side throughout the following day, refusing for anyone to tend to her gory wounds, only allowing the nurse to take the infant to the next village, to find a mother to suckle him. And here the boy stayed for almost three years, unseen by the man who had heard the pitiful cries of his wife in the throws of giving life. It would be three more years still before the boy was taken the six mile cart ride to his home to stay, to a place he had only heard whisper and rumour about. Taken from a woman, who without the ties of blood he'd loved as a mother.  
  
There he lay in the stifling heat of high summer, with just the constant drone of mosquitoes and the all-evasive stench of alcohol, until his solitude was shattered by the sound of his father, returned from his toil. "Boy, are you here?" Sergei rose slowly to his feet, arched his stiff back and plodded into the living room. His father was already at the tarnished wooded table a bottle of vodka and a small, chipped glass before him. Although only in his early thirties his father's straw coloured hair was already thinning and left uncut it hung loosely over the coarse shirt that covered his narrow shoulders. He looked up at his son with soft hazel eyes and spoke in a flat, monotone voice; "There is bread in the cupboard and tea if you want it, then we have to finish the bottom acre." Sergei sat across from his father with a hunk of rye bread and a cup of sweet, black tea and watched him sink three tumblers of the clear alcoholic drink with no sign of pleasure or effect. But the vodka finally loosened his tongue and he began questioning his son about the long months spent away. "The work, you can do it?" "Of course, Latin is hard but." A lie Sergei found the all the new lessons difficult. "They feed you well?" "The food is very good." True, far better than he was used to. "And you have made friends with the other boys?" "A couple sir, yes, but I'm there to learn not socialise." Well, he spoke to one or two boys, certainly, but friends, they were hardly that. "Come, we have work to do." He got up from the table, wiped his hands across his gaunt face and headed into the scorching afternoon sun. Sergei picked up that familiar old scythe and followed his father down to the bottom field. It was hard, backbreaking work and sweat streamed down the boy's back as the sun pounded down, relentlessly on the wide open field. 


End file.
